


Brown-Paper Parcels

by paperdaydreams



Series: Scars and All [5]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Christmas, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Unexpected Visitors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28127460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdaydreams/pseuds/paperdaydreams
Summary: With the swift approach of Christmas, John is adamant on having some festivity, while Arthur continues to struggle with their place in the world.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: Scars and All [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877536
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> brown paper packages  
> tied up with string...
> 
> Brown-Paper Parcels is set after Sweet Nothings, carrying forward events from the previous four stories written in the series. It takes place around Christmastime, 1899. See the end notes for canon changes specific to this story and characters.

An eerie screeching arose from the mountains, the blistering winter gale chasing through the ice-gilded pines, their stiffened branches rasping and clacking together like hollow bones.

Tucked away within the howling storm amid the clashing trees hunched a rundown dilapidated cabin, her cracked stone and creaking timber walls providing a modest but safe haven one should hope for in the present conditions. A thin purl of silver smoke rising from the crumbling chimney, originating from the smoldering fire burning low in the soot-stained hearth, is gathered and carried away into the dreadful night.

The orange glow of the fireplace melts away the slumbering shadows as Arthur prods at the charred split logs with a poker, a wool blanket draped around his shoulders and thick socks softening the pad of his feet across the scuffed hardwood floor as he collects more wood from the heap at the door. Carefully adding the pine to the flickering red pile, tiny flames lick the coniferous offering, the crackling golden sparks a fire reflected in his eyes. Leaning the iron rod against the wall, he kneels to warm his hands, numb and dry from the bitter chill of outdoors.

It is the heart of December, on the cusp of the year's end, and it has not become any less forgiving – weather or way of life. He has tried, and failed, to not worry.

Grumbling in his sleep, his companion stirs restlessly in the clutches of a dream, burrowed under the folds of the disheveled blanket; the exposed curve of cheek displays three prominent gouges, the light scar tissue permanently embedded in his darker profile.

Rising from his contemplation at the fireplace, Arthur settles on the bed cautiously and lays a gentle hand on the disquieted man’s shoulder. “John?”

Eyes full of shadows blink open nearly at once, glazed still from the fading nightmare. Abruptly, the hollow shock fades to a brittle relief as he shuffles to sit upright

“ _Jesus_ , I thought… I thought it were real, Arthur."

“Valentine?” Arthur prompts gently, sweeping the wool from his shoulders to wrap around John instead, letting his hand remain as a comfort. John reaches up, taking it tightly enough for the knuckles to whiten.

A very bad dream, then.

“No, the train,” he responds dully.

Arthur recalls the day with a shudder, and his grip automatically tightens, the pressure near enough to bruise. In his mind’s eye, he can see the flash of a knife and smell the tang of red crusting on his hands…

And John’s face, strained and white, so damn _white_. The blood gone out of him, and nearly his whole life, too.

It was months ago, when the summer was ripe and autumn kissed the breeze. Some days, Arthur knows uncomfortably all too well, it feels it were only yesterday. It all rushes back from time to time, the guilt and panic, the helplessness. The day he could’ve lost John.

“You’re alright,” he manages, ashamed he cannot offer more. John nods, lax as he slumps into Arthur, head tucked beneath his bearded chin.

“It weren’t me though,” John’s muffled voice says. “I weren’t the one who- An' I couldn’t… save you.”

Silently, Arthur holds him near in the safe barricade of his arms. _Oh_ , he thinks sadly.

“It weren’t real,” he murmurs firmly. “Listen to me. It were _just_ a dream. I _ain’t_ leavin’ you.”

“I know, it’s just…”

“It ain’t _nothin'_. Don’t get yourself worked up thinkin' it over an’ over, you hear?”

His head bobs slowly against his chest, a quiet confirmation.

“I ain’t goin' nowhere, Marston. Promise.”

“I believe you,” he replies, though shakenly.

Arthur smiles, pressing a chaste kiss to the tangled hair. “Good. Go back to-"

He’s interrupted by a sudden banging at the door, and they both jolt at the offending noise, the hard skull smashing upwards into his jaw and causing Arthur to nearly bite clear through the tip of his own tongue.

“Who in hell would…?” John hisses, scurrying off the bed, narrowly keeping from tripping on the long leg of his union suit.

Eyes watering, Arthur scrambles for his revolver kept within arm’s reach, soundlessly rushing across the floor to the curtained window. He only keeps from peering out at the light of a wavering lantern held in the dark, and slides down the wall a little to keep his shadow obscured. Glancing across the cabin to where John has stuffed himself into the narrow space between the wall and headboard, Arthur decides to wait for whomever has arrived to determine events for them, rather than engage as he once might have.

They aren’t meant to be here, after all.

The rapping at the door is insistent once again, a gloved hand holding nothing from the way the knuckles bounce. Arthur fights the instinct to look out the window, blind to his enemy, a disadvantage should the situation spiral out of control. The handle of the door is tried, followed by the shuffle of booted feet – only one pair of feet, he notes – then all falls quiet a moment.

Arthur meets John’s nervous glare, unnecessarily holding up a hand to indicate he not move, though they both know better.

“Hallo?” a nasally tremble of a voice calls, softened as it penetrates the door. “Ah, I saw the smoke from the chimney. It’s dreadfully cold and- and I’ve been travelling for _hours_ looking for shelter.” This speech is halted by a series of explosive sneezes, then an apology.

John shakes his head urgently, lips a frowning line. Arthur hasn’t a single notion to open the door, or to answer the stranger, his primary concern being their own safety. He hasn’t the mind to dare risk what shelter and sparse belongings he and John have managed to acquire and keep these brief few weeks. They lost everything once – if not many times before – and he refuses to begin from nothing again.

“Ah, I’m sorry to have bothered you,” the stranger calls. “I had only hoped… ah, no bother. Goodnight!”

The boots creak through the snow, fading some as the stranger treks away. The lantern light disappears altogether, and Arthur finally straightens to lift the edge of the curtain, looking out only into pitch black. His back loosens, the tension rolling off his shoulders.

“Did he think us fools?” John asks skeptically, crawling across the bed to peer out his own window.

“I dunno, John. Come away from the window.”

Placing the revolver on the countertop, Arthur drags a broken chest in front of the door, shoving it against the wood solidly. It’s a heavy old thing, the hinges destroyed, but it will serve as a partial barricade should someone try to force their way in. Even so, as he dusts his palms clean on his thighs, a disturbed inkling takes root at the back of his thoughts. Have they been found?

There is a chance, even so tiny has he has managed to make it, that every day he leaves the cabin for supplies or to go hunting which could effectively be his last. Someone could see him and report his whereabouts to the law or, worse, recognize him and claim his bounty for their own wallet. Should he be captured alive, he will be hanged from the gallows before a blood-hungry crowd, but not before his capturer does whatever should they please with him – not limited to humiliation, torture, or god knows what they fancy for their victims.

But should he be killed, Arthur only hopes it is painless and quick, as merciful as he might try to offer a man fool enough to raise a gun to him. He’s much decided on the person he wants to be, having looked back in shame; the time for violence and breaking laws is done for him, and he desires simplicity and normalcy. He’s never had such things in life, having been taught to steal and shoot from so young by men only out to gain for themselves and damn the consequences.

Only as he has grown older and watched the so-called paradise his adoptive fathers pursued, has Arthur began to have questions – questions he already held the answers to but was far too reluctant to consider as something he didn’t want from life.

A life he didn’t think men like him were allowed to have, and yet here he was, struggling to hold fast to that fragile and delicate hope.

And so, on the days he cleans the hunting rifle and consults the weather before going out, he closes his eyes for a heartbeat of time to let the seconds mean something earnest. On the early mornings when he saddles up Admiral and rides down the snowy track in the hoof prints of other travelers, he opens his ears to the birdsong and the distant whistle of wolves to experience the world as she offers herself. And when he gathers the axe to chop another round of wood for the fire at night, he focuses his mind to stay steady and thank whatever deity or higher being has offered he and John reprieve (as little as it has been).

Arthur’s had the time to do enough thinking about the future, and has felt the emerging of a changed man struggling to find his footing – a better man. He wants to set aside The Outlaw, let the gunslinger rest, shake Dutch's shadow from his spirit. He’s done with violence. He’s done being the butcher, the man wrestling with the giant, the right-hand of Van der Linde.

But nothing resurfaces old instincts and reignites The Outlaw quite like the slim chance they’ve been found. And then he remembers: Men of his kind never change.

The world is not so kind to offer such a boon.

He sees himself reflected in Marston, the vengeance and ferocious anger quick to awaken at the strike of a match, deadlier than he were at twenty-six. Arthur was younger than John when he was scooped up from the streets into Dutch’s meddlesome hands, a boy of nine or ten if he remembers right – far too little to know of right and wrong, much too gullible and malleable. Dutch had shaped him, molded him to his needs, and unleashed his creation to further his own gain.

A child from nothing, shoved into a gilded cage and told it was home. How many years would it take to even begin to undo the damage?

“Arthur.”

He looks up at the lanky young outlaw, whose dark eyes have narrowed to concerned slits. He backs away from the door, gathering his thoughts as he comes back to the present again.

“Wool-gathering,” he mumbles by way of explanation. “Y'were sayin'?”

“D'you think he’ll be back?” John inquires, not for the first time. Arthur shrugs, scratching at his chin.

“Hope not. I ain’t inclined to be sittin' up all night watchin’ for him.”

“Yeah, me neither.” John sinks down onto the bed, staring into the fireplace. Arthur joins him, their shoulders touching.

“You need to sleep,” he reminds softly, but John’s sharp chuckle is response enough.

Sliding off the bed, Arthur sits on the floor, one leg stretched out and the other casually propping up an arm. John pivots, crossing his legs and fitting his chin into a hand as he consults the blond.

“It’s almost Christmas.”

Arthur snorts a laugh, not expecting that declaration. For a time of merriment and cheer, it truly hasn’t felt so, even if this holiday shouldn’t be without plenty of snow. He tips his head back, and notices John is smiling.

“Feelin' festive?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow, and the smile shows teeth.

“Yeah, was thinkin’… we could put up a tree. Have a bird for dinner, like all them city folks do.”

“Marston, the two o' us hardly fit in here. How d'you plan on draggin' a tree through-"

He’s cut off as a warm mouth closes over his, firm and needful. Arthur can feel the slightly raised scar on John’s lip, his teeth grazing against the rougher texture. A wandering hand follows his collarbone to the buttons of his shirt, deftly undoing the topmost ones.

He ought to get off the floor; the angle is unideal, the strain on his neck somewhat unpleasant. It would be better to carry on up on the bed.

John must’ve considered the same thing as, within a single movement, he’s on the floor and pulling Arthur down to him, pliant and open. Arthur maintains a knee beneath himself to keep from squashing John, but a slender thigh knocks him off balance, pressing them together tightly against the hard floor.

“Wanna feel you,” John grunts against his lips, pushing his hips up, the tenting fabric of his union suit indicative enough for his intentions – to which Arthur has no qualms towards in the slightest.

Obviously.

“Is this your way of convincin’ me ‘bout bringin' in a tree?” Arthur huffs, fighting against his own eagerness and concentrating on the tiny buttons.

“Is it workin’?”

“You ain’t tryin' hard enough, cowboy.”

He’s met with a mischievous glint and a glimpse of teeth, before long legs gather tightly around his hips and flip them over, Arthur pinned beneath the wiry gunslinger.

“Then tell me,” Marston challenges, the rasp of his beard scratching Arthur’s neck as a wet trail of kisses follow the opened V of his collar. “How can I convince you?”

“I ain’t no easy man to be told what to do.”

“Hah, really?” John pauses, smirking. “I’m callin' bullshit, Morgan.”

Arthur bites back a smile, pushing himself up to sit nose to nose with the younger gunslinger. “What you gonna do then?”

He doesn’t miss the curious quirk of brow. Subtly, he shifts his hips a little to line himself up with the firmness against his own, relishing the faintest break in composure he achieves.

“Could tie you down,” John offers uncertainly, then with growing confidence, “An' make you beg.”

“Beg for what?” Arthur whispers, nosing into John’s warm throat, the familiar sweet musk as comforting as the heat of his form pressed near to him. Long-fingered hands ease the cotton from his shoulders, down his biceps, freeing his arms one by one, their calloused touch tracing the bones of spine and rib beneath hard muscle and the softer skin of his flanks. Lips kiss his shoulder, the crook of his neck. The long strands of hair are ticklish.

“Beg for me. My hands, my mouth,” he wanders softly and aimlessly, the barest roll of hips teasing a suggestive friction – not enough, but the possibility of more. “Plead for release.”

“That what you want from me? Make me beg? Make me desperate for you?”

“If… if it means gettin' a tree?”

Arthur tries not to chuckle, the plaintive hopefulness of Marston's tone just too earnest, but cannot help himself. It breaks the spell a little, his mirth bubbling and diffusing as quickly as it came. John is bright pink.

“Johnny-" he laughs, shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll get you your damn tree.”

“Tomorrow,” he declares. “There’s one down near a clearing, just east of here. Saw it last time I went huntin'. Ain’t too big.”

“Not just _any_ tree for John Marston,” Arthur teases, climbing off the floor and pulling John up with him. He’s painfully hard, and shoots the darker gunslinger a reprimanding look.

“Better do somethin’ ‘bout that,” he gestures.

“No, I were plannin' on sleepin' it off,” Arthur scoffs, tugging the union suit off his legs. “In my bag. Use it often ‘nough.”

The clink of the metal lid unscrewing holds an immediate sense of anticipation, but is promptly paused by the rustling of Arthur’s bag and the distinctive crumpling of paper. He glances up from setting his clothes aside, and sees the brown-paper-wrapped parcel tied with a bit of cord. John doesn’t open it, nor does he inquire, but merely blinks at Arthur with something of a doe-eyed expression.

Suddenly sheepish, Arthur explains, “Should have somethin' to go under that tree o’ yours.”

The bright glow of excitement is bottled hastily, shoved away before it rises too strongly, and John returns the parcel wordlessly. But he can’t hide the tiny smile at the corners of his mouth, and joins Arthur on the bed.

Afterwards, their skin damp with perspiration and utterly breathless, John rolls into Arthur’s side with a toothy grin, folding his arms on his chest and resting his chin upon them.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“For…?”

“The gift. I love it already.”

“You ain’t even seen it yet,” Arthur protests, while his thoughts chase ahead to the morning it will be opened; the moment he saw it, he knew the man it belonged to.

“Don’t need to. It’s from you,” John says, pecking the tip of Arthur's nose. “Just as I don’t need no reason to love you.”


	2. Chapter 2

The morning air is crisp and broad, its mildness temperate and refreshing as John leads the way along a shallow path through the trees, Arthur following in his footsteps. Their clouds of breath mist around their faces, gone the lightest shade of pink at cheek and nose, but not yet has the cold settled into their warmly-dressed bodies. Through the pine branches shines the early day's sun, shimmering a dozen specks of colour as the needles glistening in ice are lit through like crystals.

“How far is your clearin', you reckon?” Arthur inquires of Marston, who recounts the trek from the other day while hunting. He points in a vaguely easterly direction.

“Not far. Just over there,” he reaffirms, brushing an irritable strand of hair from where it has persisted to remain in his eye. How much he would be thankful for a band to tie back the length, or a hat to clamp over the flyaway bits. He has already considered trimming the length, as it has grown considerably longer than he often lets it, the longest ends at his collarbones.

Arthur’s is something of the same, though an errant wave has settled into the length beneath his ears, the finer strands curling when the snow dries in it. Marston has caught him scratching at his beard throughout the day, clearly in want of a shave. The both of them could do with a trip to a barber, though resembling a pair of hairy wild men might do something for their wanted status.

John sighs quietly. The bounties on their heads, separate or combined, would be a worthy profit to a bounty hunter. He knows Arthur’s feelings towards keeping a low profile and, more recently, hanging up the belt for good.

But while he is likened to agree - it would be for the better – neither know how. What life can they live, with bounties as grand as the ones they cannot shake, even should they be law-respecting men?

The subject is one he daren't address often, if at all anymore, for how panicked and angry it causes Morgan to become. Neither understand the normalcy other folks take for granted – for them, it’s either fight for the right to live accordingly to the rules bred into them, or lay down their freedom and forfeit their lives. John knows nothing else, no sense of calm, no reason or way to surrender.

Many of the gang often teased him for being the lone wolf of their pack, the wild boy who didn’t fit in, the pup chasing after the older and wiser men for a bone. He struck out on his own once, spent an entire year roaming the lonesome countryside in search of place and purpose, but only came sulking back.

And sure, everyone welcomed him back with raised glasses and open arms, but it was a hollow return due to one _large_ exception: Arthur.

John knew he believed him to be a brazen and wily fool, a brainless idiot chasing silly ideals and running from the responsibility of his woman and child. Except in truth, he shared no blood to the boy and held no love for her; those desires and wishes and hopes belonged to another, a someone until only recently John feared would never requite them.

Until, most wonderfully, they _did_.

Often, John has caught himself reminiscing about their time with the other outlaws and gunslingers, fighting for a way of life they all believed in but could never seem to aspire to. As the year dwindles to a close and he reflects back on the months – some of the best and worst months of his life – he sometimes thinks of what might be, had things gone differently in Valentine, or the law hadn’t caught them on the road in the frantic move from place to place.

Where would they be now? Surely not California, as there forever was a reason they couldn’t cut through the mountains and follow the country west. Had they managed to hide from the law in Lemoyne, might they have gone as far as Saint Denis for a boat and taken her out onto the ocean? Drifted across Flat Iron Lake and taken the San Luis into New Austin, or even as far as Mexico?

Perhaps he will never know, and maybe it is better not to, though he still wonders.

It would be quite a celebration, should the gang have been gathered together for a toast of drinks, and thrown a fine party of singing and a few rounds of cards. John can’t quite shake the nostalgia for the faces he called family, the collection of tents and wagons he knew as home. Arthur has, barely ever speaking of the gang, never a word of a select few members even John isn’t too keen on recalling; admittedly, he does envy how easily Morgan has cut ties while he continues to cling to the threads.

He cannot confidently admit it would be a good thing neither, to allow the memories to fade, whispered voices left to vanish in the wind. Arthur would disagree. He was always better at severing the cord, of letting go and putting up the walls, of carrying on.

Hosea would say Marston has too much of Dutch in him – the longing for the past, the iron-rigid grip on the way it was. Unable to move on and too hot-tempered. Arthur holds his anger close, tight to his chest like a poker hand, unleashing it in controlled but memorable blows after allowing it to stew for days, if not weeks. It makes fights between them taunt and tense.

Before long, the conifers and leafless maples thin out to a round clearing, devoid of foliage, but the snow densely packed flat by the trampling of many a visitor. Aside from the occasional twittering of black-capped chickadees and northern cardinals, or the rustle of grey squirrels dislodging icy powder from the upmost branches, it is peacefully quiet. John had been on the trail of a fine elk at the time until a pair of coyotes startled it off, and in his frustration, found the tree alone at the edge of the clearing sprouting from a shattered boulder.

“There it is,” he points out the squat little pine, no more than four feet tall, and nearly as wide; it’s really more of a bush than a proper tree to decorate with tinsel and glass ornaments. Arthur chuckles at the sight of the tree having stubbornly grown its way through the stone from which it emerged.

“Well, ain’t that a tough lil’ feller.” He bends to observe the trunk, rubbing his jaw with a gloved hand. “Could’a picked any ol’ tree in the forest, an’ you chose this one.”

“The rest weren’t nothin’ I seen before.”

Arthur hums thoughtfully, examining the trunk for the best point to begin cutting.

A loud snap across the clearing nearly startles John out of his skin, palm falling to his holstered revolver as he whirls. Across the clearing is a hunched figure hobbling nearer, the dense fur on its back lifting as the wind catches it.

“We got company,” he warns lowly, hearing the crunch of boots behind him as he’s joined.

“I see it.” Hefting the hunting rifle he brought, Arthur squints at the odd creature. “Oddest lookin' animal I ever seen.”

Abruptly, as though it heard, a gloved hand waves into the air from beneath the fluffy pelt. Able to distinguish the shape and gait of a human beneath the excessive layers, the outlaws lose some of their tension, but John is inclined to remain worried.

“Ah, hello there, fellers! Beautiful morning, is it not?” the stranger calls cheerily, near enough to be studied in detail as he leans upon a crooked walking stick, gnarled and ugly as a root. Sporting a bundle of thinning greyed hair atop a shiny forehead and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles at the end of his hooked and narrow nose, a wide grin is offered to the boys. “Well, aren’t you a shy lot?”

“We ain’t fond of strangers,” John snaps.

“We weren’t expectin' no one being around,” Arthur adds much less sharply than his companion. “You live in these parts?”

“Oh, goodness no!” the stranger proclaims. “M'name's Edison. Nicholas C. Edison, at your service, my good men. I have taken up travelling in my later years, though I ought to have a stern talking to with my younger self for his lack of wisdom.”

“Ah.” Arthur shoots John a puzzled look that fully encompasses how he’s feeling at present. “D’you... uh, have somewhere to stay, Mister Edison?”

Edison is a trim little man beneath the weight of the pack hanging heavy from his fur-wrapped shoulders, the hand-mended stitches and sewn-on patches in his russet-brown jacket suggesting he’s been journeying for a time. The sleeping roll and camping equipment strapped to either side of the large pack, and the tired lines of his weathered but homely face, say all that is unsaid.

“Why no, I’m afraid not. If you lovely gentlemen could be so kind as to direct me to the nearest hotel? I would be indebted to you,” Edison adjusts his spectacles before they slip off the tip of his nose. “I would not enjoy another night spent in the dark.”

While the fellow has been speaking, it has occurred to John this is the same stranger who visited the cabin late the night before. With the unpleasant suspicion at the forefront of his thoughts, he has begun to concern himself with how long it will be until Edison guesses as well. Their tracks lead directly back to their place of stay, after all.

“Valentine ain’t far from here,” Arthur is directing, pointing vaguely in the direction of the livestock town. “Shouldn’t be more than a day’s walk.”

“Oh, thank you kindly, sir. But I doubt my poor old legs could go another hour at this rate,” Edison’s frown suddenly becomes hopeful. “Are you heading into town? If it wouldn’t be too much an inconvenience, of course…”

“Weren’t plannin' on travelling, Mister Edison. Roads are bad an' all.”

“I’m ashamed to have even asked. Forgive my inconsiderateness,” Edison looks rightly despaired, waving his hand in the air. “Never mind me, gentlemen. I shan’t bother you another minute with an old man’s ramblings. Be well!”

Hobbling across the clearing again, John is grasped by a sudden spurt of regret and, before he can think twice, calls out, “I’ll take you to town.”

Arthur’s elbow dashes into his ribs, the blow softened by layers of fabric, but serves its warning enough. Deliberately ignoring the fierce blue glare burning through his skull, John shuffles through the snow, cheeks reddening a bit.

“My… uh, my friend ain’t fond of Valentine, is all. Got friends there he don’t need to be seein’, you know?” he fumbles.

Edison glows bright as the sun. “I would be exceedingly appreciative, Mister… ah, how rude of me! I never did ask your names.”

“John.” _Shit._ “Uh, John… Matthews. An’… he's Arthur. Callahan. Arthur Callahan.”

Edison blinks at them, something of a humorous gleam in his dark little eyes. “Well, I must offer my immense gratitude, Mister Callahan and Mister Matthews.”

John nods awkwardly. “I’ll bring the horse. Stay here.”

He’s careful to avoid Arthur’s stormy glower.

X

The ride through Cumberland Forest and down to the outskirts of Valentine goes without concern, Admiral steady beneath his two riders as the half-draft plods through drift and over flattened snow easily. John maintains a brisk pace, hoping to be home before nightfall, not intending to tarry.

Descending the final winding slope and seeing the snow-topped roofs ahead, he reins Admiral by the church and swings down from the saddle, offering a hand to Edison.

“Civilization at last!” the old fellow cheers, sliding to the frozen dirt with a thump.

“You’ll be alright from here?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you, Mister Matthews. After a hot meal and a good night’s sleep in a proper bed, I ought to be well enough to take on the world once more! Ah, before I forget…”

A purse of clinking money is pressed into his hand, heavier than he expected, though being paid wasn’t anticipated in the slightest. He manages a choked word of gratitude before his manners are forgotten entirely, pocketing the money safely.

“It has been grand, Mister Matthews! Until we meet again,” Edison performs a quick bow and unnecessary flourish. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” John echoes as the little old man stumbles away into town, whistling a tune and cheerily waving to all those he passes.

The money in his pocket is enormously distracting and, as he is about to climb back into the saddle again, it occurs to him he hasn’t a gift for Arthur.

Leading Admiral to the hitching posts somewhat out of the main sight of people, he argues with himself for a good minute before coming to a decision: He’ll visit the general store, buy something nice, and leave before anyone is none the wiser.

Valentine is bustling with townsfolk heading up and down the street, men and women shouting greetings or arguing as they do, the horses pulling heavy wagons stamping impatiently as their drivers struggle to navigate the churned up muddy sludge. The distant bleat of livestock and neighing horses at the stables is white noise pushed to the background, muted altogether as John shoulders past a gathering of ladies in front of the general store and disappears into the shop.

Aside from a person going over the bait and fishing supplies, only the shop owner is present, stacking canned beans on the display shelves.

“What’re you in the market for?”

“Just lookin',” he answers. “Somethin’ for my… uh, my friend.”

“A lady friend?” Mr. Worth points to a row of shiny glass bottles on the top shelf, all covered in a thin layer of dust. “Ain’t nobody buyin’ them perfumes, but women love ‘em.”

John shrugs, sparing a brief glance upwards, not willing to shell out money stupidly. He can see men's cologne up there, but could only image the egregious price tag.

In an effort to maintain his calm and find something suitable within the allotted amount of time he’s allowed himself, he sees a stack of fabric on the shelf by the window and makes a beeline towards it.

The shirts are all heavy cotton, the small white buttons stitched neatly down the fronts, cuffed and collared. The colours are simple - oatmeal browns, crushed raspberry, mossy green, and cloudy grey. He shifts them aside to see if there are more, and instead sees a denim sleeve peeking out from the back of the shelf. Grasping it, John tugs the jacket free.

“Ah, that’s where it ended up,” Mr. Worth chuckles. “The only grey one they sent me.”

“It's torn,” John fumbles with the rip through the sleeve. Aside from the minor flaw, the denim jacket sports simple brass buttons and two breast pockets. If it were in better condition, he'd have bought it.

“You can have it,” Mr. Worth offers unexpectedly. “Can’t sell damaged merchandise.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Consider it… part of the season of giving and all that.” Smiling, he disappears behind the counter for another case of cans, and John bundles the jacket beneath his arm as he heads to leave.

On second thought, he returns to the counter and places a couple dollars there, to the shop owner’s surprise. “Buy yourself a whiskey. Merry Christmas."


	3. Chapter 3

Wet clothes hung to dry by the roaring fire, the two gunslingers observe the tree leaning against the door where they left the branches coated in the more stubborn chunks of ice to melt, rather than risk snapping the branches and ruining their haul.

Having arrived back at the clearing where Arthur was waiting, the tree already chopped at its base and ready for bringing back to the cabin, it hadn’t been his intention to _explode_ at John quite as angrily as he did – but the argument lingers yet in the cabin. Dragging the pine all the way back, impeded by deep drifts, had not been the ideal picture of ease, and the increasingly livid tones between the men further from the cheery spirit they had begun the day with.

Arthur knows John can look after himself, and it isn’t this that worries him. No, it’s John’s ability to do exactly _that_ which had him concerned. If someone so much as recognized him, or even _thought_ they did, there was no guarantee how Marston would respond.

The whole time he was in Valentine, Arthur could only imagine the bloody shootout ending with John either locked up in jail or pumped full of lead. 

With the pine in the cabin, it doesn’t take up an enormous amount of room, but the decision as to where it will be placed has become something of a point of contention between them as the tension of the morning melts with the ice; Arthur thinks by the door upon entry would be best, to prevent the flow of movement from the cramped kitchen to the room serving the dual purpose of bedroom and living space, whereas John very much wants to set it by the fireplace – still out of the way, but less “out of sight” than Arthur’s plan.

“An’ if the branches catch fire?”

“Tree’s too green,” John says.

“Would make a lotta smoke,” he cautions.

“I ain’t meanin’ to put the whole damn tree in the fire, Morgan!”

The bickering carries on for the rest of the afternoon, the argument dying only to be brought up again every time one of them passes the dripping pine. Bringing a plate of dried fruit and bread to where Arthur’s reclined comfortably, a leg propped up with his leather-bound journal open against a thigh, John sets the plate directly on the man’s stomach, distracting him from his state of absorption. Immediately, his nose wrinkles.

John crosses his arms. “ _Eat_ it.”

“I don’t _like_ prunes.”

“Why’d you buy ‘em in the first place?”

“I dunno… just grabbed a few things,” he mumbles, poking half-heartedly at the dried plums.

“So, you buy crap you ain’t gonna eat but expect me to?” John reaches down, plucking the journal from his hand. “Heaven forbid you bring home salted offal.”

“Now _look_. I ain’t _that_ big a bastard. Give that back, cowboy.”

John smirks, flipping the journal over to see what Arthur’s been drawing. One yellowed page is of the tree still in its clearing, sprouting forth from the rock, an except of handwritten lettering in the bare spaces on either side. The other is of the cabin as it appears today, Morgan having doodled the tree leant against the door, and John at the rickety counter with the dried fruit jars at his elbow. He hands it back, then self-consciously brings his hair over one shoulder, fondling the split ends.

Arthur moves the plate aside, sitting up. “Hand me your knife, an’ bring that chair over. I seen you fussin’ with it day-in an day-out.”

Dragging the chair nearer to the bed, Arthur doesn’t miss John’s uncertain frown. If a barber weren’t to do it, then the task was left to Miss Grimshaw or, on the rare occasion, Hosea. The old con-artist would lop the boys’ hair short in the summertime; Arthur didn’t mind it so, but he remembers John throwing a fit until the point no one bothered anymore.

“Don’t make it short,” he requests tightly as he sits before Arthur, hands lightly gripping his own knees. “Looks awful.”

Arthur smiles, half-tempted to do just that. “I’d be able to see your face better. Always hidin’ behind a curtain.”

“I’m serious. Just _please_ …”

“You remember that summer? Were it eighty-nine or ninety-one?” He glimpses John bite into his bottom lip as he begins parting the sides from the back, tucking it in place behind an ear. “It got so stinkin’ hot an’ I found Miss Grimshaw with her scissors, tryin’ to get Mac an’ Davey to help hold you down? Your hair were so greasy, Pearson could’a fried a fish in it.”

A low hum responds.

“An’ cause you couldn’t be bothered to stay put for two minutes, poor Susan gave up an’ Hosea ended up takin’ it all off.” The distinctive _slish_ of the sharp blade through hair has the dark-haired outlaw gnawing on his inner cheek, and he minds to take his time and not accidentally nip off the tip of an ear.

When the sides are done, Arthur has him bend forward to reach the back. He rests the crown of his skull into his collarbone, heaving a sigh, the breath tickling Arthur’s chest. He gathers the longest pieces, rendering them shorter.

“Why that one?” he asks absentmindedly.

“Hmm?”

“The tree,” he clarifies.

“Stood out to me, is all. Ain’t nothin' special.”

“Y'sure went outta your way convincin' me last night.”

“Well…” John dwells on it for a moment. “It reminded me o’ us, I think. This year’s been hard, some o' the worst we been through. An’ here’s this little tree splitting a rock in two just to grow, feel the sunlight. It persevered, like us.”

“That’s awful poetic, John,” he comments.

“Don’t you be startin’ now.”

Brushing the loose trimmed hairs away, he presses a light kiss to the back of his neck. “Done.”

Immediately dragging a hand through his hair to inspect the damage, John appears relieved. It gathers densely, stubborn wisps forever falling across his forehead, the ends barely brushing his shoulders. A touch shorter than how he usually wore it around camp, the split ends and dry bits discarded of.

“You’re an uncommonly vain feller, ain’t you?” Arthur teases, handing John his knife, handle out. “Always fussin'.”

John smirks. “Dunno. Let’s see when I’m done with yours, Morgan.”

X

The sun has yet to shine through the foggy windowpane when the intense aroma of coffee floods John’s nose, and he rolls over to find the tin held in front of his face. Arthur is kneeling beside the bed, eyes shining brightly, the fire roaring hot behind him with the smell of breakfast cooking.

Beside the fireplace, propped up and decorated with a few pinecones tied with pieces of thread leftover from patching holes, is the tree. John grins.

It’s Christmas morning.

“Hey,” Arthur whispers.

“Hey yourself.” Before he accepts the hot drink, he drags his fingers through the short waves of sandy-blonde hair. “Mmm, gonna take some gettin' used to again. Ain’t been this short since… summer?”

“Y'better be happy with it. It’s all your doin', ain’t it?” Arthur says. “Here, take this. I ain’t waitin' any longer for food.”

“How long you been up?” John asks, sipping the coffee slowly as he sits up. It’s good, but then again it’s never good when he makes it.

“Not long. An hour, I guess.” Arthur kneels before the fire, loading the steaming food onto a plate and handing it to John. Sizzling sausages and bubbling baked beans, and he could swear those are fried eggs.

“What’s all this?”

“What’s it _look_ like?” he bites though a sausage. “Breakfast.”

Lacking any further comments, they tuck in, splitting the coffee between them. Outside, the snow drifts down heavily, but the cold is chased away by good food, the hot fire, and dear company.

Collecting the dishes and placing them aside, John is surprised by a parcel deposited wordlessly into his lap. He stares at it for a second, then remembers, performing a bit of weird stretching to bring out the denim jacket from where he stuffed it under the bed. He triumphantly hands it to Arthur.

“What’s this?” It’s Arthur’s turn to exclaim.

“What’s it look like?” John responds cheekily. “I dunno if it’s gonna fit. Grabbed it when I were in Valentine.”

“John…”

“Try it on!”

Morgan complies, tugging the denim in place. To John’s disappointment, he doesn’t think the sleeves are comfortable from how closely fitted they look.

“Little tight on the arm,” Arthur comments, “the rest fits pretty okay.”

“Sorry ‘bout the tear,” John pokes the fluffy white strands where the rip has widened going up Arthur’s bicep. “Were the only one.”

“Hmm…” Arthur grasps the sleeve and, with a sharp and careful tug, rips the arm clear. In a simple adjustment with his knife, he creates a cap sleeve out of the other side as well.

Pulling the newly-made vest on and leaving it open, he hands the sleeves to John. “Could use those for patches.”

Over the dusty blue of the union suit, the denim vest doesn’t look terrible, and John folds the sleeves into a neat bundle to add to his satchel hanging from the backrest of a nearby rickety chair. 

“Open yours,” Arthur prompts quietly.

John picks up the parcel tucked in his lap, shaking it slightly but unable to determine what it is. The barely-contained anticipation alongside him is infectious as he unties the cord and unfolds the paper, revealing a lidded box.

Lifting it free, John’s lips part on an intake of breath, his eyes widening a touch. Carefully, he lifts the grey leather hat from the box, admiring the black band securely fastened and studded with steel grommets. The low, wide brim dips slightly, curving only with the gentlest rise on either side. He hesitates a second, then places it securely upon his head; it is snug, resting there comfortably, as though made for him. Arthur is barely able to hide his smile when John peers out from the shadow of the brim.

“Suits you fine,” he comments glowingly.

“I don’t got any idea what to say… or, or how to thank you. Arthur…” he touches the brim, wondering how long it’s been hidden away, where it was bought or found, _what he looks like_. “Arthur, _thank you_.”

“I hoped…” he begins, but John clambers off the floor and into Arthur’s lap, embracing him tightly. Arms wind around his waist, the rumble of laughter between their bodies.

“Guess it’s alright, then.”

John pulls back to see his face, unable to rein in his immeasurable delight. “Bet there’s a story behind how you found it.”

“There is…” Arthur answers slowly, stretching up to meet John’s lips, causing the hat to slide up on his forehead when the kiss deepens. “But I ain’t _tellin'_ you,” he adds against his mouth.

“Tease,” John growls.

“Damn right,” he drags a fingertip over Marston’s bottom lip, which is promptly bitten. “Well, how ‘bout it, cowboy? What’s your plans for today?”

Smirking, John leans sideways to reach back underneath the bed, and withdraws a second item he'd hidden. Bringing the short length of soft rope into view, Arthur’s brow quirks curiously.

“Thought we could put this to use…” he ventures.

“Y'did mention it before,” Arthur points out.

“I did.”

“An' maybe…” he holds out his hands, turned upwards and wrists together, “we should send eighteen ninety-nine off with a… _bang_.”

Laughter fills the cabin, spilling out into the cold morning and the golden haze of dawn, deep amongst the pines of Cumberland Forest – where even Christmas can be found.

**Author's Note:**

> In this work, Arthur is 31 (b. 1868, non-canon) and John is 26 (b. 1873, canon). The Van der Linde gang disbanded following the Valentine shootout in chapter two, during an ambush on the rushed relocation to Dewberry Creek. Several died, some were captured, and a few escaped. The first work in this series is Tight Spaces, written for Morston Week 2020 (Aug '20).


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